Well, it’s late in the afternoon –too much Tramadol in last night’s pasta sauce I’m afraid– I just woke up to the sad but not unexpected news that Pep Guardiola has chosen not to renew his contract as sexypants manager of futbol juggernaut Barcelona and the mango I just chopped up for breakfast tastes like onion because I gambled on “is this knife clean or dirty” and lost, so I guess now is as good a time as any to admit a deep, dark secret:

I sleep with a stuffed animal.

>Richard Parker, generally referred to simply as “Tiger” (hey, not even we creative types can be creative all the time) is a six foot-long Bengal tiger and my constant bedtime companion for close to two years.

I’ve always eyed with suspicion grown women whose beds are covered with plush bunnies, fuzzy bears and other infantilizing paraphernalia. If you are old enough to afford your own bed, you are old enough to spend the night without Mister Floppers and company. Still, when Tiger came into my life, I knew we were meant to be.

Tiger has served as my go-to body pillow since I first brought him home, adherent to his duties where many other body pillows have failed. He regally bears the indignity of being used as a knee-stabilizer on nights when sleeping on my back is a must, he plays the role of “little spoon” with silent hauteur and when I need a bit of lift to write in bed, he’s got my back, literally. Not bad for being purchased while in a 3 a.m. fugue state in the Hallmark aisle of my local Walgreen’s.

My best friend in the entire universe (“and beyond!” she’d add) is also a body pillow enthusiast. She’s a big girl too but unlike me, is naturally endowed with what is known to medical science as “spectacularly ginormous bazoongas”, so much so that, when unfettered or only slightly battened down via stretch cami, they make sleeping comfortably a serious challenge.

Last year she spoke longingly of some firm looking double-pronged pregnancy pillow she saw in either a Jennifer Aniston or Jennifer Lopez movie where the lead Jennifer was in The Family Way (I don’t know, nor am I interested, in what the movie is called. Best friend though she is, she also has the singularly worst taste in movies of any person I’ve ever met, despite having a Very Impressive Degree in film something or other).

A bit of Google-Fu led me to the Leachco Back ‘N Belly Contoured Body Pillow.

It’s her birthday on Saturday (Happy Birthday, Girl!) and this was my gift. Her initial response was “Oh Girl I ruvs it!” which is always a good sign.

I don’t have one myself, but were my sleeping arrangements other than they are, I would willingly retire Tiger in exchange for something that supported my back, thighs and stomach (my gals are travel-sized so don’t really do much of anything but sit there and tell me when it’s cold).

What about you? Would you wrap yourself in a double-sided body pillow or do you prefer some other method?

You know, it’s been a long little while since we’ve jump-started the week with some old-fashioned hotness and frankly, I’m not okay with that.

In a way, you have a gas station attendant in Ensenada to thank for what we are about to receive.

Yesterday, the fella and I decided to take a daytrip south of the little port city to avail ourselves of the fresh mountain air, see La Bufadora (purportedly the second biggest blowhole in North America), check out a potential relocation spot for Villa Plumcake and –fingers crossed– watch some jerkface surfers get eaten by sharks.

Disappointingly, the local great whites must’ve given up jerkface for Lent, and having grown up inside the Washington D.C. Beltway I can attest that not only is La Bufadora NOT the second biggest blowhole in North America, it wasn’t even the second biggest blowhole on my street. Still, the air was great, the mountains resplendent and the ocean view was well worth (okay, almost well worth) the disappointment of not seeing any great white gore fests.

Of course neither of us could focus on the air, mountain, blowhole or lack of shark-related brutality because we were too busy trying to remember the name of Barcelona’s dishy (okay, only I called him dishy) goalkeeper after seeing his doppeltwinsy pumping gas at a roadside fuel-and-taco emporium. This went on for three hours.

The keeper in question was, of course, young miss Victor Valdes.

I’ve got to be honest here, he’s never really steamed my tamale. Sure, he’s a good-looking fella, but his smolder is so self-satisfied that it leapfrogs straight over Sexy and lands in Unintentionally Hilarious Homoerotic Meathead.

e.g.:

P.S. I really hope the stylist put those back in Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus”video before Dave Gahan slaps someone silly.

Then I started thinking, in the way I so often do, about my favorite goal keepers. As it turns out Valdes, despite being considered one of the world’s best boys in the box (shut your mouth!) was only #3 behind Pepe Reina and Saint Iker for Ethpana’s 2010 World Cup national team.

Oh Pepe.

As any Liverpool fan will say, or more appropriately sing (to the tune of Guantanamera) “One Pepe Reina. There’s only one Pepe Reina.”

but wouldn’t it be nice if there were several?

If Victor Valdes is the guy at the bachelorette party you make your friends SWEAR never to mention again, second-generation goalkeeping legend Pepe Reina is the guy you marry and have a half-dozen athletically gifted children with, all while praying they get your hairline.

A lovable goofball, Reina was described as both the best dancer in the Liverpool Football Club and, much more interestingly, “the longest in the shower” on more than one occasion.

Of course we couldn’t mention the prince and the queen (Reina means Queen in Spanish) without taking a moment for Sara “If This Boob Job Doesn’t Convince You I’m a Serious Journalist I Don’t Know What Will” Carbonero’s infinitely better half,  Real Madrid keeper and captain of the World Cup-winning Spanish National Team, Iker Casillas.

We’ve featured Saint Iker on The Monday Hotness before, but just as a little refresher, here’s a teensy taste of why it’s a bad idea to throw something at a person who catches flying objects for a living.

I’ve said it before: Competence is so sexy.

I’ll be honest. I’ve been slow to warm to Christmas.

When I was a kid, my brother and I made the yuletide bright mostly by waiting in an agreed-upon supermarket parking lot halfway between our parents respective evil lairs and being caught in the traditional children-of-bitter-divorce crossfire. Then later there would be cookies.

No one asked what we wanted for Christmas and as an adult, Christmas presents were firmly tucked into the For The Children nook of holiday cheer.

This year is different, and I discovered this year is different because Hot Latin Boy –who is a total curve-ruining overachiever– casually mentioned about all the millions of manhours he’s putting into my present, which I’m 99% positive is a “secret garden” full of my favorite plants and flowers from Texas and Virginia so I don’t feel homesick at Villa Plumcake.

That’s great and all, but it doesn’t exactly cast a golden luster on my gift to him, a white ceramic pineapple (a nod to an inside joke) that I’m not even going to giftwrap, lest it alert the border patrol.

It DID get me thinking what grand gift I really would like though, and for the first time in years, I’ve actually got one in mind.

Of course there’s the old standby:

(That, my friends, is the making of one FILTHY Venn Diagram)

but in the off chance Gaspar, Balthazar and Melchior DON’T manage to bring me Zizou, Xabi and Mou (I’m still going to wax, just in case) what I want more than anything in the whole wide world is a plaza-worn Traje de Luces.

Say what you will about bullfighting –despite Villa Plumcake being tantalizingly close to the Plaza Monumental, I’ve never brought myself to see a corrida the highly-embellished “suit of lights” is the pinnacle of beauty in a male couture garment.

(*snerk*)

And of course the bodies in them aren’t terrible either.

It occurs to me my burning desire for a traje marks a departure from buying clothes and accessories to collecting them. A traje is a standalone work of art and I would display it as such.

Of course I have a lot of my shoes, scarves and jewelry on display, but I also wear them. I’d never wear a traje.

Understandably, trajes are thousands of dollars new, and used ones fetch even higher prices if worn in the ring by a famous torero like Manolete, the James Dean of bullfighting.

I still don’t know if I’ll ever see a correo (I’ve heard they have no-kill ones, and I’d jump at the chance for that) or whether I’ll just stick with my Hemingway and Almodovar, but I’ve been pretty damn good this year and I sure would like to find a traje under my tree…you know, if Zizou and the boys don’t fit.

Hello my little chitterlings, how’s every little thing?

Are you all gorged unto gorgeousness on Thanksgiving splendor? Not I.

I only got back stateside on Tuesday night so all I managed to do was putter around the high-fashion disaster zone that is my house, look online at various appliances and whatnots I’ll have to buy and then haul across the border and proceeded to get so overwhelmed I had to stop everything and watch several episodes of King of the Hill in a row, curled in the fetal position eating cheese grits. You know, just like the pilgrims did.

Thanksgiving always slips by me anyway, but today, TODAY, is a day I shall never forget. Not only is November 25th the birthday of my much-missed grandfather, it also the anniversary of the birth of my beloved Xabi Alonso.

Most people in the US, if they know Xabi at all, know him from the vicious kung fu challenge he received at the foot of Dutch monster, Nigel de Jong, at the 2010 World Cup final.

But I prefer to think of the classiest man in football like this:

okay, actually I prefer to think of him like this:
(more…)

As many of you know, it is the hap hap-happiest time of the year; the beginning of premier league Proper Football all over the world, and as I’m organizing my fantasy team and plotting my Saturday mornings (and afternoons, and potentially evenings if I keep getting these mezcal hangovers) from now until the end of May, it occurred to me: Fat Fighting is a sport, and all girls –almost all girls– are expected to play.

Women are encouraged to follow, worship and obsess over the Fat Fighting the way men are over sports. Somewhere along the way, it was decided we were supposed to care about some actress’ visible rib count the way some men worry about their favorite baseball player’s RBI.

Like any sporting fan, there’s pain involved. Teams are fickle, players disappoint. There are drunken midnight promises made to God and self that get called off the moment your side scores a miracle or loses the penalty shoot out. You devote time, passion, money and so, so much emotional energy to what…some men kicking a ball? Some number no one else will ever see, much less care about?

No one understands you, no one cares.

No one wants to sit next to you at the bar because you’re just going to go on and on about points and weekly whatevers until someone –quite possibly you– gets stabbed in the eye just to break the monotony.

Still, I understand the appeal.

It’s not just suffering –unless you support Arsenal, then yeah, it’s pretty much suffering, but that can also be enjoyable in a martyred sort of way– there’s also the elation when your side pulls it off.

I accidentally broke a bar stool when Madrid scored a penalty kick against Barcelona last season, and we all know someone who did a victory lap when they finally fit into the dress that needed a shoehorn and some axle grease just a few months before.

And then of course it becomes a compulsion.

Skipping work to watch the Clásicos (no, I’m not prepared to talk about the Supercopa yet…give me time) spending money you don’t have on tickets, whiling away your Saturday mornings getting drunk in an expat bar even if you’re not a journalist. Where, precisely will the madness end?

I think about the Diet and Beauty industry and how easy it is to get lured in.

We learn it from our parents, from our friends. We support a team because it’s the one we’ve always been around. It’s a way to bond with our social group, or expand the one we’ve already got.

But what if we just don’t LIKE that sport or at least don’t want to go to EVERY game?

Obviously we can choose not to engage, but at what price? Do we lose community? Is it a community we mind losing?

I’d be extremely interested in hearing about the experiences of any of you who had been heavily (er, you know what I mean) into the dieting/obsessing/calorie-counting lifestyle and come out the other side, or anyone who feels their unwillingness to follow that particular “sport” has caused them social woes. Put it in the comments!

Good morning my little chickens and waffles, how’s every little thing?

Me? I’m super. Okay yes, technically I did break a bar stool moments before Cristiano Ronaldo scored a sizzling goal to equalize for Madrid during Saturday’s el Clásico against Barcelona, which was dead embarrassing, but I didn’t miss the goal and I didn’t spill my pint so I’m still taking that as a big W.

Also, I got mistaken for being from Spain, which is about the coolest thing that has ever happened to me in the history of…well, ever. Yeah, pretty much ever.

I’d just finished watching the match and was leaving a nearby paletería, coco paleta in hand. Oh, for those of you who don’t have access to paletas (and thus no probable reason to live) a paleta is a popsicle-type thing made of fresh seasonal fruit. Normally you have to wait for the paleta man to come by with his little cart, but as it is unbecoming of a woman of my social (not to mention physical) stature to chase an infinitesimally small and surprisingly easily-spooked Mexican man down the street while waving a wad of cash, I was delighted to find a little shop that sold them, a dollar a pop, from a little freezer.

Anyhoodle, I’m traipsing down the sidewalk in my magic jeans, beautifully-fitted Xabi Alonso jersey and 5″ Diane Von Furstenberg cobalt pony heels (made from real cobalt ponies!) enjoying the first paleta of summer and trying to make 100% certain that second-half pint was out of my system before getting behind the wheel.

I popped into La Merced, because any place that advertises itself as a combination “Groceria, Carneceria y Discoteca” –grocer, butcher and discotheque– is a place I want to see the inside of.

While inside the admittedly disappointing grocer/butcher/disco (is a discoball made out of a haggis dipped in broken mirrors really too much to ask? I submit that it is not) I pretty much got the same response I always get when I walk into a place catering to a mostly Mexican clientele while wearing some sort of Spanish soccer jersey: a mix of confusion, suspicion, appreciation and fascination which I never really understood.

On my way back to the car, still enjoying my coco paleta, I hear a muffled whistle, then a much clearer one.You know, a real, old school wolf whistle of the variety usually reserved for cartoons where Bugs Bunny is dressed in drag.

Yeah yeah, I know I’m getting my humorless feminist card revoked as soon as I hit “publish” but after the second whistle and a call of “Miss! Miss!” I turned around.

If a guy is going to take the trouble to leave his place of business to whistle at me in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon, I’m going to turn around to see.

He was precious.

I was easily a foot if not an actual foot and a half taller than he was and when I turned around he hesitated as if he’d just caught a shark with a minnow then asked in Spanish if I knew the score of el Clásico. I answered him –also in Spanish– that it was a 1-1 draw, with Messi putting one past San Iker and then Cristiano Ronaldo answering in the second.

More confusion…

“Are you from America or Spain?”

I answered and he explained that he thought I was from Spain (the Xabi shirt, and the Spanish-from-Spain slang) and was purposefully misunderstanding him just to be a language snob.

Which brings me to my major point:

Pep Guardiola is smokin’ hot.
(more…)

Full disclosure: I am a bit biased when it comes to Wales. My people are Welsh. The line in my family I most strongly resemble physically and in temperament are Welsh. I have a Welsh name, Welsh coloring, Welsh features…I’ve even been accused –graciously– of having a Welsh Character because of my all-consuming love of language, mysticism and brooding.

I can also get around Welsh pronunciation fairly well. For this reason I was put in charge of any and all communication IN Wales because asking a gay man from the American South to inquire what bus goes from Aberyswyth to Machynlleth and whether we have to transfer at Llanymawddwy or Dolgellau — although highly entertaining– is considered “cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment” and thus puts you in violation of the 1975 Geneva Convention. Oops.

Back to the boyos.

Wales, at least the parts we were in, is rural. I mean really rural, and for Kirk and I –two fun-loving career girls from the big city– it meant one thing: Hot Boys On Tractors.

I don’t know WHAT they were farming and I don’t care. By the time Kirk and I got on our ferry to Dublin, we both had concussions from the repeated thwonking our heads took on the bus windows every time we passed some inevitably pouty, well-muscled farm boy, his dirt-streaked skin glistening in the sun while his shirt clung to his rippl…well, you get the picture.

Sadly, we did NOT get pictures of the hot sweatsy menssesses (yes, our vacation was pretty much a seven day version of a Men on Film sketch. don’t act like you’re surprised) so you’ll have to settle for the famous ones.

There aren’t just a ton of really famous Welshmen but don’t think a little thing like that will stop me from bringing you some A+ hotness from the land of my people.

But first, we have to get one thing out of the way:

(more…)